


And Just Like That

by stover



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Allura and Haggar are Siblings, Allura and Lance are Siblings, Allura and Lotor are Siblings, Alternate Universe - Modern Setting, Character Study, Family Dynamics, Gen, Introspective Writing, New York City, Slice of Life, Suspense, literary fiction
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2017-04-17
Updated: 2017-04-17
Packaged: 2018-10-20 03:32:58
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,189
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/10654029
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stover/pseuds/stover
Summary: For several days, a man in a black suit appears at the doorstep of Allura Lyon’s home. One Thursday afternoon, she approaches him. The meeting is not a pleasant one.





	And Just Like That

**Author's Note:**

> An experimental piece written as a character study for Allura. Title inspired by a piece by Abel Korzeniowski with the same name, which you can listen to [here](https://www.youtube.com/watch?v=r7mTcZjehJk).

Thursdays are like this — Wake up at five, followed by twenty minutes of yoga, followed by a quick shower, followed by a kale-avocado-apple-basil-chia smoothie, followed by a dull corporate morning, followed by a protein shake, followed by afternoon meetings, followed by a run through Central Park, followed by a stop at Kim’s Corner Grocery, followed by half a grilled chicken marinara on rye and a Diet Coke, followed by thirty minutes of Netflix, followed by a mild cleanser and moisturizing night mask, followed by blank dreams, followed by followed by, followed by followed by…

It’s an endless, mundane routine. But she likes endless, mundane routines, because they’re nothing at all like how it was when she lived with her two brothers and sister. Back then, it was a storm and a whirlwind to see anything to the end, for as the eldest of four there were so many loose ends to meet. Harlene cared only about her theater career, Lawrence was always borrowing money, and Lance was still in school. When Harlene packed up and left without a word, she was devastated. And then she realized how quiet it was when there was no one to argue with. When Lawrence landed in jail and told her “Don’t worry, sis, I got this under control,” and she never heard from him again, she was distressed. And then she realized how easier it was to put Lance through college. When Lance left for the Garrison, she was proud beyond what words could express. And then she discovered how long twenty-fours hours felt, discovered how big her upper west side apartment was, and discovered what it meant to be lonely. **(1)**

She filled her days with endless toil, hoping that filling up her time with monotonous tasks she could work meaning into her life. She hasn’t found it yet, but she’s found something she never thought she’d find again — comfort.

There was a comfort in routine, a comfort in the predictable; there’s unspeakable, incomparable satisfaction when everything falls into place the way you planned, as if the world was now under your control. And she was addicted to it, craved that satisfaction daily, and sought to maintain her endless, mundane routine.

Years passed, and her routine stayed. She found a gentle happiness in her years of well-preserved satisfaction earned by her own two hands, found security in the investments she’d made over the years, and preserves her parent’s legacy by keeping their financial assets fresh and afloat.

Prolonged comfort, while stable — and while stability gives safety and safety turns to satisfaction, which, for her is something quite essential — gives birth to something else, over time. And it was three years of maintaining her endless, mundane routine that she surrenders and finally sees it as it is — boredom. Bored, she realizes with bitterness, she was bored.

Perhaps that’s why she didn’t feel compelled to worry when the man first appears.

Several days a week, there came a man to her door. He was tall, and dressed finely in a crisp, pressed suit. He wore a rounded, black hat for the first week and a dark cap for the second. He always wore thin, black gloves, the kind her late father would have worn to an evening dinner. She had never seen him before, and she was certain he’d never seen her, even if she always peeked out from her window just one floor above.

 _“Are you fucking crazy?”_ her brother had yelled at her over the phone two Sundays ago when she’d first told him about the man. _“Call the cops!”_

“I _have._ Twice.”

She was a black woman living in the late Coran Torbitt’s expensive loft, a property she shouldn’t have inherited. The police came, asked some questions, jotted some notes, and cordially left with hardly any follow-up call.

_“Well, I’m coming over.”_

“Lance, you’re in Arizona.”

_“I said I’m coming over!”_

He really would have come over, if the Garrison hadn’t gotten an order for an emergency lockdown. She called the cops again, if only to appease her brother, who’d swore to her he’d be here _“any moment now.”_ So, she waited for him.

She waited for the man, too.

The man didn’t arrive like clockwork; some days, he came while she was having her morning tea, and other days he came by as she was unloading groceries from a paper bag. There were times when he came to her door three days a week, and times when he came just once. But always, she saw him in the same suit, with the same hat, with the same gloves.

“Does he carry around pamphlets?” asked Katie Holt, a young girl whose uniform was always rumpled and wore her glasses askew. They’d just run into each other, just as her walk through Central Park had dropped her off on a street heading towards her usual grocer. “Or any cards?”

“No. Why?”

“Might be one of those religious folks. Y’know, the people who think we need salvation. Has he told you who gets to go to heaven? There’s a real specific criteria for that, you know.”

He’s never spoken a word in all the times he’s come by. Never even uttered a sigh. Just stood there, atop the stone steps, to stare at the door in silence. Once or twice, she’s seen him raise his gloved hand to touch a finger on the bell, but never press. His finger would stay there, lingering against the tiny button, and stay silent and still; and she would watch, silent and still; and her apartment, too, would watch, silent and still.

“Maybe he’s delivering something? And just… gets the address mixed up?”

She stares at the boy wrapping her sandwich at the deli counter with a pinched expression.

The boy stares back at her, brows furrowed and nostrils flaring. “What?” he snaps at her. “Sometimes _I_ get confused! All you rich people live in the same houses.”

“There are numbers engraved on the stones above the door.”

“Yeah? Well, the numbers don’t mean shit. I’m not too sharp with numbers, remember? They get all mixed up in my head. That’s why I’m here packing sandwiches instead of going to some fancy school, or something. Say, how’s Lance doing? He hasn’t gotten himself blown up or anything yet, has he?” **(2)**

“He’s fine,” she says, paying for her sandwich. “Frazzled by his flight sims, but he’s fine.” A smile twitches on her lips. “I’ll be sure to tell him that you asked about him, Keith.”

Keith’s face turned sour as he hands over her change, picking out the bills and coins one by one. “Don’t tell him I asked. I hate that guy, he never shuts up. I could care less if he got blown up.” Keith shook his bangs out of his eyes and tapped his fingers on the counter. “So, like. Is he coming back any time soon, or…? I mean, I’m just asking so I can steer clear, you know?”

Should she steer clear of him? The man in the black suit? There was definitely something about him that troubled her, though she couldn’t quite put her finger on it. Something about the way he stood, head bowed; something about the way he dressed, clean and immaculate; something about the way he showed up at her door and simply left without a word of why he’d come in the first place, only to come back again.

It was unnatural, she told herself. There must be a reason to explain it. But how to uncover it…?

“Have you just… I dunno, _asked?”_ The florist watered his colorful blossoms and chugged half a venti-sized macchiato in three gulps. He pulled away from the drink with a satisfied sigh and smacked his lips. “Thanks, Allura. I totally owe you one.”

“It’s nothing,” said she, and meant it. He was, at this point, like family. “And no, I… I haven’t even spoken to him once.”

The florist scratched his chin. “See, that kinda makes things difficult, don’t you think?”

She smiled. “Well, yes. I can certainly see how that can complicate things.”

“Great! Problem solved. Go talk to ‘im. See what’s up.” The florist raised a brow. “Want me to go with you? Y’know, in case you need to call the cops. Not that I wouldn’t clock him for you, if I needed to — or that I’m scared of him; I mean, I haven’t even seen the guy, but, uh. You know what I mean.”

She laughed. “I do. And that’s quite alright, Hunk. But thank you. I appreciate your kind offer to be my bodyguard.”

“Anytime, Allura,” said Hunk, giving her a charming grin very much like her brother would.

She carried the groceries in one arm, pressing it tight to her chest with a hand as he fiddles with her phone with the other to see how everyone else is faring. She roots through Nyma’s facebook as she waits for the light at the crosswalk to change, flips through Shay’s instagram, and checks out Sergio’s snapchat. They’re doing fine, if their internet activity is any indication, though a little bit boggled by a few complications — Nyma’s flight to London was delayed, Shay had gotten a little lost while hiking with Rax in Colorado, and Sergio was… all over the place. Being expelled from the Garrison didn’t change the fact that he was rich, or that his family couldn’t care what he did as long as he came back home once he turned twenty. **(3)**

As a result, he was spoiled rotten into entitlement and boasted crude mannerisms that she’d grown to detest in her youth. Still, she couldn’t help but feel sorry for him. They’d grown up together, her family and his. They had been, at one point, quite attached. There were weekly dinners that turned to twice weekly; and always was he dressed so well, taking great care of his outer appearance and dressing the way their fathers did for their own evening dinners. There were nights they stayed in comfort and nights they parted in anger, the latter growing frequent as the years went on. They didn’t think of splitting until their fathers’ differing economic philosophies lead to a corporate break that spilled millions out of the market, the pressures of which eventually took both fathers away. Nothing was quite the same after that. And now, here they were, all trying to compensate for the loss of their fathers by chasing after their own glory and their own place in this vast universe.

She locks her phone, slipping it away in the front of her bag and making a left at the corner of 97th to finish the rest of her walk home. She reaches her home, the apartment with the grey stone embellishments over a red-bricked visage, and comes to a full stop at the bottom of the steps leading up to her door.

Standing in front of the door, like always, is the man in the black suit. His head is bowed, one finger on the doorbell, and he faces the door in solemn silence. And then, the man does something she’s never seen him do before. His naked finger presses firmly against the doorbell.

**bzz** **_PINNNNG_ **

The man stands, head raised and facing ahead. And he waits.

There is no answer from inside the apartment. So, she answers out here instead.

“Can I help you?”

The man in the black suit stiffens and slowly turns, his face looking towards her at last.

“Oh,” she breaths, laughing and coming up the stairs. “Shiro, it’s you! It was you this whole time!”

The man in the black suit smiles. “Hello, Allura,” he greets quietly, a hand coming up to slide his military cap, one side decorated with lapels, off his head. “It’s been a while.” Then, his smile fades. His gaze drops to the ground.

The bag of groceries in her arm crinkles as it’s drawn closer to her chest. “Shiro?”

Shiro’s lips press together. His hands clench and unclench. “I’ve been trying to reach you for a while. I… I didn’t know how to say it, so I…”

It’s unnatural, watching him struggle with words. Bizarre, almost. It makes something cold curl stiffly in the pit of her stomach. An ugly, nagging voice troubles the back of her mind. There’s something off, it tells her, something terribly, terribly off.

“Is—” The words seize her tongue, choking her. She swallows, pressing her trembling hands together and willing away the cold spires of fear digging into her spine. “Is everything alright?

Shiro’s eyes shut. An inexplicable look of pain crosses his features. She breathes in, slowly, feeling the ice melt into her blood until she feels no more. For some reason, she thinks about her father, and then for a wild second, she feels as if she can hear the words before they are spoken.

“I’m so sorry, Allura,” he says, his voice barely above a whisper. “There’s been an accident. Your brother, Lance, he’s… He’s gone.”

And just like that, her endless, mundane routine leaves her just like everything else she’s ever had.

**Author's Note:**

>  **(1)** Harlene and Lawrence are human names I give to Haggar and Lotor, respectively.  
>  **(2)** Dyscalculia is a learning disability that makes it difficult to understand numerical concepts and/or mathematical theories. Learn more [here](https://www.understood.org/en/learning-attention-issues/child-learning-disabilities/dyscalculia/understanding-dyscalculia).  
>  **(3)** Sergio is the human name I've given to Sendak.
> 
>  
> 
> "s-tover" on Tumblr.


End file.
